Rex Vadum Adveho
by The Musician's Quill
Summary: A supporter of Denethor and skeptic of the return of the king, is doing all in his power to remove Aragorn from the picture, and using Faramir to do it.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Chained to the freezing stone floor, Aragorn could do nothing. He could only watch, helpless, as the white hot piece of circular metal came closer and closer, illuminating the face of the tormentor. The blood of Numenor had never felt as weak and frail to him as in this moment.

'Please, Valar,' he prayed silently, 'please stop this.' He squeezed his eyes shut in anguish. How many hours of suffering had been endured, how many more until either help or death arrived?

"Aragorn," the voice, shaking with agony and terror, called from the other side of the small room. "Aragorn, don't give in. Don't give them what they wa – ."

The voice cut off into a tortured scream as the iron was shoved brutally onto the pale skin of his abdomen, and in that scream, the last tendril of Aragorn's hope shattered. His eyes snapped open and his cry joined the other's in a plea that he knew wouldn't be answered.

"FARAMIR!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:**I don't own Lord of the Rings – it belongs to Tolkien

"FARAMIR!"

Aragorn shot up in bed, his heart throbbing disjointedly in his chest, sweat soaking through his nightshirt. His head jerked franticly from side to side, expecting to be met with the almost impenetrable darkness and blood freezing terror of his dream. But there was only the pinkish-gold of dawn slinking through the open window, and Arwen's gentle breathing from beside him. No irons. No screaming. No pain.

The king rubbed shaking, sweaty hands over his face, ignoring the prickling of five o'clock shadow, before slipping out of the overly large bed, big enough for five people; the size and grandeur felt like overkill, and usually frustrated him to no end, but this morning he was thankful, for it kept his thrashing from waking his wife.

Grabbing the first pair of clothes that caught his eye, Aragorn hurried into the washroom, washed his face and dressed, before hurrying out of the chamber as fast as possible without breaking into a dead run. He had to find his Steward; it was the only way he could set his mind at ease.

After checking in the Steward's chambers and the dining hall, Aragorn began to feel the panic sweep over him again, as he gave into the desire to break into a dead sprint back upstairs to the library, where he and Faramir were working until late last night. Flinging the heavy wooden doors open, he stopped in relief. There was his Steward, curled into a ball on the divan with a heavy tomb over his face and auburn hair splayed every which way over the armrest.

Aragorn let out a soft gasp of relief, before treading softly to Faramir's side and lifting the book off his head. However careful he was to not disturb him, the movement jolted Faramir out of the realms of sleep. Estel crouched down, waiting while his Steward laid still, trying to get his bearings. What he wasn't prepared for was said Steward to leap up as though shocked and bend into a deep bow.

"My Lord, please forgive me, I didn't know you were here, or I would've…. Please forgive my breach of courtesy."

More than slightly shocked at this borderline fearful act of homage, Aragorn paused for a moment.

"There is nothing to forgive Faramir," he soothed, concerned when the man before him refused to meet his eye. He would've thought that after almost five months since his coronation, five months of working side by side, trying to build Minas Tirith back into something resembling normalcy and order, that the two of them would've had more of a sense of camaraderie at the very least. But Faramir still seemed to worship him at the very least, fear him at the most, and Aragorn had no idea of how to change that any time soon.

Reaching out a hand, Estel gently tipped Faramir's chin up so their eyes met.

"I would not have you fear me, _mellon-nin_, he murmured, hoping to elicit a response from the quiet, self-conscious man he had come to care for like his own son.

"I am trying my Lo - , Aragorn" Faramir replied just as quietly.

"I know," he replied, wrapping his arm around the Steward's shoulders in a kind of half-hug, for the latter was still quite apprehensive about close contact. "Come, let's get cleaned up and go have some breakfast. I think after last night, we both deserve a break, and I would have you join me for a walk in the gardens later before Council convenes this afternoon, if you so desire."

Shock flashed across Faramir's face, another indication of his lack of self-esteem, and a habit Aragorn was desperately trying and determined to break. His efforts were not all in vain, however, for a shy, hesitant smile soon replaced the confused frown.

"I would like that, thank you very much Eless - , Aragorn."

Aragorn smiled back, guiding his Steward out of the library by the arm still draped around his shoulders. Slowly but surely, it seemed they were making progress.

* * *

He stopped in his walk up to the seventh level to glare up at the palace. _If only Denethor hadn't died_, he thought bitterly to himself, _we wouldn't have this weakling King and worthless Steward as our sovereigns. The line of Kings is broken, and it should remain so. If not for this ranger, I could've gotten rid of that bastard Faramir and ruled supreme over this city! Now I shall have to dispose of them both, far more risky, far more resources expended, plan needs to be absolutely foolproof … but oh, so worth it in the end! Now, where to begin…? _

Malicious grin hidden by the deep cowl of his cloak, he began to fabricate his plan.

* * *

Faramir met Aragorn around the corner from the Dining Hall fifteen minutes later, both men looking much more put together. Without speaking, they rounded the turn and marched into the hall. Immediately upon entering, the whole assembly rose to their feet in the presence of the King. Aragorn, obviously embarrassed, waved them back down, shooting Faramir a bemused look. The latter shrugged as if to say 'you're the King, what would you expect?'

"You're late, Estel" Legolas teased as the King sank into his seat.

"I wouldn't have been if a certain Steward we both know had actually gone to bed so I didn't have to run all over the citadel looking for him this morning! And he turns up in the library, as if we hadn't spent all night in there as it is. I think we should just move his bed there, it might actually be put to use once in a while. Just think, Faramir, you never would have to leave the library, and we'd all know exactly where to find you!"

Poor Faramir turned a glorious shade of pink at the jesting; Aragorn saw this and gave him a reassuring grin to let him know he wasn't really serious, before tucking into his eggs and bacon.

"What's on the agenda for the council today?" Legolas asked as they all settled into the usual mealtime socializing.

"National security," Aragorn replied with a grimace. "I'm already visualizing the conflict…."

"Why even bother discussing it," Gimli growled from further down the table. "Dwarves got it right – we keep our forces ready and when the time comes –," he slammed his hand down on the table, sending the drinks in the nearby vicinity sloshing onto the tablecloth.

Aragorn quickly interjected as Legolas opened his mouth to retaliate, no doubt, with a comment about the superiority of his own people, and probably preventing an all-out verbal war between the elf and dwarf.

"We also need to discuss how best to receive public opinion," he stated darkly. Faramir closed his eyes momentarily from remembered exasperation; this issue had been one of the most debated on the council for about a month now. Many were adamant that public polling wasn't necessary, that they already knew the people's needs, wants, opinions. But Faramir was apprehensive – something about their arguments didn't seem quite right….

* * *

"You seem nervous," Aragorn observed as he and Faramir strolled leisurely through the gardens later that morning.

"I don't trust the council," came the simple reply. Aragorn resisted the urge to grind his teeth in exasperation. The highly perceptive younger man seemed to pick up on it though, for after a brief pause he elaborated.

"Many of those men," he began hesitantly, "aside from the ones you appointed, served under my father. The vast majority supported his decision to try and retake Osgiliath."

"So basically they knowingly and willingly supported a suicide mission and the certain death of all in that company, not the least of which a company which included the Steward's son?"

A nod.

The King growled. "Remind me to replace them by next session."

Faramir stopped abruptly, forcing Estel to stop with him.

"My Lord, that would be most unwise. It would be viewed as a sign of weakness, an indication that you can't even maintain peace in your own council. People would begin to lose faith in Your Majesty, and so soon after you took the throne. My grievances with the Council happened in the past; let them remain there."

"But think of the death and misery their actions caused …."

"I know, but, Aragorn…" he was hesitant again "…why do you care so much? Why do you care so much about _me_?"

The sudden change in topic, the very question itself, threw Aragorn off, and he could simply stand there for a moment, gaping.

"Why do I _care_?" he finally gasped out. "Faramir, how could I _not?_ How could anyone not? You're the most selfless person I know, you're compassionate to even those who don't deserve it, intelligent, strong in mind and heart, loyal, to name but a few. You are my friend, Faramir, one of my closest and dearest friends. Does it really need any more explanation than that?"

It was now Faramir's turn to fall speechless, so he merely shook his head. "No," he finally got out, "no, I…, thank you, Aragorn. That means … more than I can say. I'm proud to call you my friend as well."

It was as if a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and he immediately felt more comfortable in the presence of his King, now knowing how he truly felt about him. He had been so worried this relationship would turn out to be like the one he and Denethor had shared that he had feared to become too attached to his sovereign, had tried to remain cold and aloof to avoid getting hurt again, even while his heart was screaming at him to do exactly the opposite. Now though….

"Glad to know we can agree on something other than work," Aragorn replied with a small smile. He opened his arms in invitation, and Faramir gladly sank into the fatherly embrace. It had been so long since he had felt like this, since he had felt loved. It was definitely something he looked forward to getting used to.

**TBC**

A/N – Hi all, welcome to my story! This is my first work of fanfiction _ever_ so I'm a bit nervous, but I hope you'll enjoy reading this as much as I'll enjoy writing it. I'll update at least once a week, unless something major happens, in which case I'll do my best to leave a note and let you know what's going on so no one freaks out. I know this chapter is a bit slow, I'm just trying to show you where Aragorn and Faramir's relationship is at this moment, but things should pick up within the next chapter or two. I had a question on the rating, it's a) to be safe, and b) for later chapters. So I think that's everything, kudos to everyone who leaves a review on the way out!

Wren


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer –** Still don't own it, all the credit goes to Tolkien

"What you propose is sheer idiocy!"

"It would completely disrupt the whole balance of power! And how are we supposed to go about doing the polling, put paper and quills in the brothels and ask the peasantry to submit their opinions when 80 percent are illiterate!"

"How can they possibly know what is right for them? They have no concept of politics, of the larger picture, the city as a whole – "

"They don't even deserve the _privilege _of a voice; they're lazy scoundrels who lie about drunk half the time and hung over the other half – "

"We should be thinking about how we're going to finance the rest of the rebuilding, not wasting time worrying about the '_voice of the common people_.' Honestly, we could spare a lot of time and money if we simply put them down like the dogs they are. Denethor had the right idea –"

"LORD CIARAN!"

Aragorn had heard enough. This argument had been going on for an hour now, fifteen minutes of which neither he, nor Faramir, nor even Imrahil could get a word in edgewise. The comments had grown more and more degrading towards the lower classes, and tempers began to rise dramatically on all sides. Imrahil had taken to running fingers through his hair in exasperation, having given up five minutes ago trying to say anything; Faramir on the other hand, was starting to have the appearance of a fish, opening his mouth to counter a point, only to shut it again when he was viciously interrupted.

Then came the crack about the late Steward, and the King immediately knew a line had been crossed – Imrahil's head snapped up from where it had rested in his hands, and Faramir's face lost most of its color. Even those on Ciaran's side of the disagreement stared at him in amazement.

"I don't know what sort of policy Lord Denethor initiated in the past," Aragorn continued icily, "but I do know that those types of comments will not be tolerated, and it would be much appreciated if anything not pertinent to the task at hand be kept out of these proceedings. Lord Faramir, you have been trying to say something?"

Faramir shot the King an inconspicuously grateful look before standing. "Whatever actions the Lord Steward took in the past," he began, "considering how many changes have occurred in the last few months, I think it would be wise to move away from past policies and institute new ones. The Lord Elessar, at his coronation and thereafter, has made it clear that everyone, from the lowest peasant to the highest lord is meant to benefit from the return of the King. Considering the fact that there hasn't been a sovereign in the White City since the Alliance, it is ridiculous to think that we can continue along the way we were under my father, and my grandfather, all the way back to the beginning of the Third Age. Our very way of life has been revolutionized, and all must adjust. As rulers, we must help the lower classes with this adjustment, and at the same time we must also learn from the mistakes of the past.

"How can we sit here and believe that we know what is right for the common people when we don't live their lives, when we don't know what they value and what they need to make their quality of life better? If any of you have been below the sixth level, then you would have seen the depression, the hopelessness, and the lower you go the worse it becomes, until the quality of life is bordering on destitution. I'm not pretending I know how to help our citizens who live like this, but that is why initiating actions such as polling are so important. That is one of the errors the Lord Denethor made – he disregarded the lower classes, minimized their quality. These people are responsible for filling the ranks of our army, growing our food and herding our livestock, doing the tasks that no one else wants to do so the city remains clean and doesn't become a breeding ground for sickness and disease. This disregard, gentlemen, nearly lead to a revolt, which sources tell me would have occurred right before the attack on Osgiliath and the start of the battle of the Pelennor Fields.

"Where do you think we would have been if that had happened, if the herders hadn't removed the livestock, if the farmers hadn't harvested what they could and burned the rest to keep the enemy from obtaining it? Or worse, what if those in the lower classes who are also part of the army, what if they revolted? Believe it or not, many of these peasants that you disregard help to form the very backbone of our security force! Just because the larger threat from Mordor put this revolt down at the time, doesn't mean that it won't occur in the future; and it will happen, my Lords - sooner or later, people will become sick and tired of being disregarded, of having their needs be invisible when we're making policy, and they _will _come after us.

"There is opportunity in our present situation; there is opportunity for the most prosperity this city has seen in an Age, prosperity for _everyone,_ not just the upper classes. But there is also opportunity for division, revolt, more bloodshed, more death, and all over an issue that can easily be resolved through peaceful diplomacy, but only if we give up our stubbornness, our mindset that we deserve all, simply because we have more material possessions, more money, live further from the ground, had the good fortune to be born into the right family.

"I pray to the Valar you make the right decision."

And thus, with a respectful bow to his King, Faramir took his seat.

Aragorn used the counselor's stupefied silence to address the nobles. "Thank you, Lord Faramir, you expressed my sentiments exactly. However, Lord Rabryn does make a good point – how are we to conduct a survey amongst the illiterate population? The education system is indeed improving, but to wait for a sufficient number of people to learn enough to gain an accurate representation of the whole would be illogical and a waste of time."

The council fell into contemplative silence for a moment, before Imrahil spoke up.

"What if we simply sent criers down, for the time being, to ask specific 'yes' or 'no' questions, of the people, who can then respond on a piece of paper with perhaps a check for yes, and an 'x' for no, and if anyone has anything specific they wish to have addressed that wasn't brought up by the criers, there may be a time and place they can request a scribe to write their petition down."

"What sort of 'yes' or 'no' questions were you thinking of?" asked the Lord Nasur. "As Lord Faramir pointed out," a tiny sneer crossed his face, "we apparently don't know the needs and wants of the common people."

"Which my nephew was quite correct about," Imrahil smoothly countered, before another argument could break out. "Therefor, I propose that we send for representatives from the various districts to present themselves before a select group of councilors, just to give us a general idea of what we're talking about here. It might not work, but I feel it's worth a try."

"What if we had those representatives of the people be the criers," the usually quiet Lord Tharkûn piped up. "They'll obviously have gained the respect and trust of their communities if they're being sent here in the first place, so people will probably be more responsive to them than a government-hired crier."

"And if they are literate, we could ask if they would be willing to take down some specific concerns as well," Imrahil finished, obviously pleased with the way matters had turned out.

"All in favor of this proposed plan," Aragorn asked, standing and addressing the council once again. Surprisingly, seven out of thirteen hands rose, not including the King's.

"All opposed?" The other five hands went up.

"The proposal is passed then," Aragorn finished; Faramir resisted the urge to sigh in relief. "In light of the hour, I call this council to adjourn until midday tomorrow."

Faramir rested his head on the back of his chair after the minority in the previous vote, including Ciaran, Nasur, and a seemingly hesitant Rabryn stormed out of the chamber, the other members following after making respectful bows to their monarch. The thick oak door finally closed behind the group, leaving Faramir and Imrahil alone with their lord; the King sighed in relief.

"Valar help me if we have to survive another afternoon like _that!_" he groused, gesturing the other two men into his office. Aragorn poured them all generous glasses of brandy, and the three sank gratefully into the overstuffed armchairs before the fire.

"I must say though," Aragorn continued, after taking a large sip of his drink, "that I think the highlight of my time in there was Faramir's lecture. I thought Ciaran was going to burst something…." He gave a snort of laughter, which erupted into a guffaw when he saw how red Faramir's face had turned in embarrassment, before draining his glass in one gulp.

"I did nothing but say what needed to be said," the ever-humble Steward protested, draining his glass as well.

"Well whatever way you'd like to look at it," the King countered, clapping the younger man on the shoulder, "you certainly put Ciaran in his place - I was very proud of you." Faramir's face turned even redder at the compliment.

The three sat in companionable silence, sharing another glass of brandy, before Aragorn stood and stretched, cracking all the joints in his back, and announcing rather despondently that he still had paperwork to finish before supper.

Faramir exited the study with his Uncle, walking with him until they reached the library where they said their goodbyes for the time being. Neither could know that the next time they saw each other would be under much more critical conditions than an argument in the council chambers.

A/N: Dun dun dun! Hey everyone, sorry it took me longer than I said to get this chapter up, I'm currently in the crazy filling out applications part of the college process, and since I'm going into music I've got auditions coming up. Bad excuses I know, but all true. The next chapter is in the works though, and with a long weekend starting tomorrow, I should have it up before Thanksgiving. Thanks for all you're positive feedback and constructive criticism on the last chapter, I never realized how much reviews help you want to write until I'm the one receiving them; they seriously are the highlight of my day. Righty then, think that's everything, TTFN!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: ** Still don't own it; all credit goes to Tolkien (bows in homage)

Lord Ciaran was fuming. He never took kindly to being opposed, to being knocked off his high horse as it were. And he especially didn't take kindly to being opposed by the worthless offspring of the Lord Denethor.

"The boy needs to be _put DOWN_!" he snarled, stalking around the room like an enraged panther. There came a knock on the door.

"Come!"

Lord Nasur entered, followed closely by Lords Tamesis, Curunír, and Rabryn bringing up the rear. Ciaran gestured sharply for them to find seats, before spinning on his heel with an enraged expression on his face.

"The boy and the _King_," he practically spat the word, "are the only two standing in the way between us and the power that should be ours! They need to be disposed of! Denethor's brat should've died in the Osgiliath charge, it's true. We should've been successful then. But now, gentlemen, we have another opportunity. An opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.

"We obviously can't assassinate them while they're in the city; even by poison, it'll be too obvious that the culprits are palace residents. So we need to wait until our _dear _King and his Steward are out of the city together…."

"The fall hunt they're taking after the council adjourns?" Lord Tamesis spoke up.

"Exactly," Ciaran smiled approvingly. "But I've got a much more ingenious plan than simply killing them outright, something far more rewarding for us. The Steward is disposable; the _King _simply needs to recant his claim to the throne. But of course he won't do that without proper…encouragement."

"So we use the Steward as persuasion - our gratification – and when the King recants, the Steward dies?" Nasur grinned maliciously.

"And if by some merciless act of a higher being they both resist for as long as they're with us, we'll kill them both; with no heir to the throne, the Stewardship will pass to the highest ranking noble in the council, and no new King will again threaten its Sovereignty," Curunír finished, looking positively gleeful at the prospects.

"So either way, we'll get what we want – the boy who should've never been born, let alone live this long, finally in his grave, and the Lordship of Gondor in our hands. Lord Nasur, your men are ready, your skills are honed?"

The man flashed him a devious grin. "We have never been more ready, my Lord future Steward."

"Good. It would be unwise to hold another meeting before things are carried out – we don't want to raise suspicion – so we will communicate in the usual way until the time comes to ride out."

Ciaran stood, and the others stood with him. "For the sake of our future," he intoned, "we will succeed."

* * *

During his youth, the library had always been the only safe place Faramir felt he could go – safe from his doubts, fears, pressure, all of which usually tied irrevocably to his father. Now, after a long, grueling day in the council chambers, a day which had taxed him, mentally and spiritually, more than anyone could know, he entered his old sanctuary, feeling the peace of his surroundings envelop him in a familiar embrace. He couldn't help but sigh in relief.

Taking his well-known trek back through the stacks, Faramir paused to inspect titles that caught his interest, so that by the time he reached his favorite reading spot, a cluster of overstuffed chairs and couches in front of the now-lit fireplace, he had accumulated a rather hefty stack of tomes. As such, he didn't immediately see the figure that had beaten him to the alcove.

"Lord Faramir?"

The Steward lept backward in surprise, his books teetering dangerously. While he was largely successful in stabilizing most of them, the topmost wobbled off the stack, hitting him squarely on the head and then landing on his foot in its decent to the floor. Muffling a yelp of surprise and pain, Faramir managed to set the others down before any more decided to fall. Grumbling a few choice Dwarvish curses, he knelt to collect the prodigal text, and nearly bashed heads with an extremely flustered and apologetic Pippin who had crouched to retrieve it also.

"My Lord Faramir," he gasped, hands fluttering anxiously, "are you all right…I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to…Merry always said I'm too hasty and loud and…_please _forgive me, do you need anything, can I…."

"_Pippin,_" Faramir soothed hastily, raising the hobbit up with him as he stood. "First of all, please call me Faramir, no more of this 'Lord' business. Secondly, there is nothing to forgive; it was an accident, don't worry yourself over it. Now, may I ask why you're in the library, when I know for a fact that everyone else is gathered in the Great Hall for dinner? I never thought I'd see the day where you'd miss a meal!"

Pippin grinned shyly. "Actually," he began as Faramir led him back over to the circle of chairs, "I was looking for you."

Faramir raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"I've been thinking, and... I wanted to ask you…about Lord Denethor. I, I feel as if the man I offered my service to, the man who sent you out to die and then tried to burn you both, I feel like he really wasn't the real Denethor. I was just wondering, what was he really like?"

The question, asked in hobbit innocence and hobbit curiosity, never the less took Faramir by surprise. As a general rule, he usually avoided talking about his father, as the memories that came with it were not ones he was especially keen to revisit. So he chose his words carefully.

"It is true that my father wasn't the most…kindhearted of men. Before my mother died, he was, indeed, different, still stern but not nearly so cold. But after her death, he seemed to drown in his grief. Boromir and I, we saw him less and less – he was always up in the tower, spending more time in the company of the _palantir _than with his own flesh and blood. When he did come down, his persona had changed so much that it felt as if we barely knew him; it was almost better when he left Borormir and I alone, and it was sometimes for days at a time. After Boromir left to join the troops stationed in Osgiliath, Father became even more despondent, and soon deteriorated into the man that you found yourself in service to.

"The grief made his heart cold, the images sent by the _palantir_ rocked his mind past stability and rational thought, but it was Boromir's death that really sent him over the edge. When the news came… he stayed away for almost two weeks, asking for meals either in his own chambers or in the tower that was his real domain. And when he finally came down, I did not know him. Before, some spark of the man I knew before my mother's death remained. But now, there was nothing."

There was more to the story, more that he wouldn't consider telling Pippin in a million years. It was the part that had him unable to sleep for nights on end in fear, the part which had knocked his self-esteem down to a bare thread, and the part which had him doubting for a long time that there could ever be any joy in life for him. He neglected to tell Pippin about how his father had used him as a means for venting his grief, rage, uncertainty, any and all emotion that the Steward kept pent up inside, and which the _palantir _fed off of.

But thankfully, Pippin didn't see any need to pry, his eyes were already bugging out at the idea that anyone could go through such a dramatic emotional and psychological change.

"I'm sorry, Faramir, I shouldn't have asked…."

"Once again, young one, don't apologize; it is no crime to be curious and no trouble for me to satisfy that curiosity, especially given what you saw of the man. Now why don't you run off to dinner before your cousins eat everything on you, as I'm sure they're apt to do."

Pippin gave him a brilliant smile and a 'thank you' before running off to do the man's bidding, waving farewell over his shoulder as he hurried off, leaving Faramir alone with his darker thoughts.

More to the story…. Faramir failed to suppress a shudder; he had hidden these nightmarish memories away for so long, and now they broke on him like a flood, released from the constraints he'd placed them under, by the unsuspecting questions of a hobbit.

He desperately tried to stop the tide, but the memories wouldn't be banished so easily. He once again saw Denethor's livid face, heard the whistle of the lash, the laughs and jeers of the council as he was verbally disgraced in front of them. He remembered the beating two of the councilmen gave him in the vaults one night when his father was away on a diplomatic mission, the scars of which he saw, to this day, every night and every morning getting dressed, of his father, in a drunken, crazed state, finally performing the final abomination and then giving him to the same men who had beaten him nearly to death before, who proceeded to do the same….

_You killed her_, his father's voice echoed in his head, refusing to be silenced. _It's your fault, you killed her, your birth was your mother's death. And what did she die for? Nothing! Except for cursing me with a worthless son who'd rather waste away with his books than go out and defend his city and his country and his people. It was your lack of skill, your faulty leadership which killed all those soldiers under your command! If you had practiced instead of sat around with your nose in a book and your head in the clouds, then those men would still be alive! I'm ashamed to call you my son!_

The words of condemnation echoed in Faramir's head even as he fruitlessly tried to block them out. Finally, he hunched over in the chair, hands covering his ears, and bore them silently, but all the while feeling them once again tear at his heart and bring shameful tears rolling down his cheeks.

_Ashamed, weak, worthless, kinslayer, failure…._

A/N: I'm sorry it's so late, I've got these wonderful little things called college applications that are taking up my whole life right now, and then my immune system decides to desert me and I'm sick for half of Thanksgiving break. All in all, I'm not exactly the happiest person right now, so review and make my day! P!


	5. Chapter 5

(the long awaited)

**Chapter 5**

It was barely third watch. Fog hung like a pall over the sleeping city; the moon had set, the stars were dim. A night where the haunted's demons seemed to take barely palpable form in the corner of one's eyes, forming and dissolving in the mist, never fully gone, never fully there.

Up in the Royal Apartments, someone had been driven to wander the hallways by these demons. Back and forth he paced, robe swishing around his ankles and flaring out behind him as he turned.

Aragorn rubbed a trembling hand over his face, craggy from lack of sleep. Valar, he wished more than anything that his father could be here right now; Lord Elrond always seemed to know what to do, what to say, in any given situation. He needed that guidance and support more than ever right now.

Faramir had died in his arms tonight, his body and spirit broken beyond hope of mortal repair, and all by the actions of a vindictive madman who wanted something which wasn't in Aragorn's power to give. But he had tried everything else, gods how he had tried, begging, pleading, offering himself in Faramir's place, screaming in desperation and denial every time a bone cracked and broke or blood flowed, staining all around it a glaring, condemning crimson.

The dream… the vividness…. It had never been this bad. He had jolted bolt-upright in bed, screaming, literally feeling the accusingly warm blood soaking his hands. Shaking off Arwen's concerned, comforting hands, he had shakily risen from the bed, stammered something about taking a walk, and practically fled from the confines of the room.

Aragorn had sprinted to Faramir's chambers, getting a grip on himself long enough to silently ease the door open. The relief nearly made his already shaking legs collapse, the logical part of his brain appeased, triumphing over the illogical terror of the nightmare. Faramir was there, _safe_, curled up on his side, cocooned in blankets.

Having to almost physically resist the urge to stay, to watch over his Steward until morning, reassure himself by simply watching him breath, shift around, mumble something, just do anything that normal, living people did. But instead, he retreated through the shadows back up to the royal apartments, in whose hallway he'd been pacing ever since.

He'd attempted to rule foresight out of the equation; his problem might simply lie in copious stress, combined with some aspect of his Numenorian blood and his hyperawareness of Faramir's health and safety. Ever since they'd met and Aragorn had saved Faramir from succumbing to darkness, he'd felt the uncontrollable urge to make certain that his Steward was safe, cared for, happy. However, his gut instinct never had been wrong before, and Aragorn couldn't shake the feeling that this was more than just a terrible, recurring nightmare reflecting a subconscious fear.

Aragorn rubbed still shaking, weathered hands over his face; he and Faramir were leaving early afternoon for a two week hunting trip before winter. It was a well-deserved break, one they were both greatly looking forwards to. But in the wake of the nightmare, seeing Faramir hurt, Faramir killed, he couldn't help but think about the dangers of such a trip, illogical or otherwise. It would be just the two of them – security would be non-existent, anything could happen that could bring his dream into terrifying reality. Surely, Faramir would be safer in the city, maybe with a guard shadowing him….

_No_, he told himself firmly, spinning on his heel in another frantic pass. He wouldn't subject Faramir to that; it would interfere with his work, with his _life_, but more importantly, it would make Faramir uneasy, questioning whether he'd done something wrong, something to offend is King or appear untrustworthy in his eyes.

But never-the-less, Aragorn vowed, he would watch the younger man like a hawk himself until either the dreams finally left, or something else occurred to pacify him.

* * *

Imrahil had been called away in the evening of the same day Faramir had so brilliantly addressed the council on the polling issue; the farmers and their subsequent lands had, the letter said in an unfamiliar hand, been devastated in the wake of heavy rains and hail, and the lord was desperately requested to return home immediately before frustrations erupted into violence.

The last council meeting of the session was therefore nigh on unbearable for Aragorn and Faramir without the help and support of their chief ally. So it was with a great deal of relief that they watched the city shrink behind them as King and Steward galloped away from the city for their two week hunting trip. Aragorn had left the city in the hands of Lord Tharkûn; with Imrahil gone to his own lands, and both King and Steward absent as well, Aragorn wanted someone he could trust managing the city until his return, and while Tharkûn was definitely not the highest ranking Lord of the bunch, he was the highest ranking of the pitifully small group of nobles Aragorn was sure he could trust.

He glanced at Faramir as he rode beside him; the young man's face was upright, eyes slightly closed against the wind, an expression of pure bliss on his face. Aragorn smiled; the younger man had been a ranger as well, and while he might enjoy his books of lore more, that time had obviously left him with no small affinity for the outdoors. And with the stress and work of the city left behind, it made for a very content Steward of Gondor.

Aragorn had planned on taking them to one of his favorite natural retreats for their first night, a small clearing a fair distance into the woods with a gentle, generous stream flowing along the edge on its way to the Great River. There, he hoped to take up again his treatment of Faramir's wounds, a process which, once the younger man had been strong enough, had regretfully fallen by the wayside in the wake of their increasingly busy schedule. Despite his denial and attempts to conceal it, Estel knew that the shoulder wound Faramir had received during the war and the – disgraceful, Faramir had muttered one time – whip marks on his back both still pained him, not to mention the physical manifestations of stress.

It took them until twilight to reach the spot, a time filled with engaging conversation and companionable silence as they both enjoyed the ride. Reaching the clearing, they dismounted almost as one, and after some small debate Faramir took over the task of removing the horses' tack and leading them to the stream to drink, while Aragorn collected firewood and got a good sized blaze going before slipping off into the surrounding woods. By the time he got back with a plump rabbit and some fresh greens for the evening meal, Faramir had put the horses on leads and had the camp set up, and was now sitting in front of the fire, poking it idly every now and then to keep it going. It was fully dark by the time supper was ready, and they both ate in nearly unbroken silence, simply content to listen to the life around them and enjoy the other's company. So it was that, unwilling to break the ambiance, Aragorn waited until after the meal was cleaned up, sans a pot of water left out to heat, and he and Faramir were once again seated by the fire to drop the bombshell.

"I'd like to tend your wounds," he stated simply, watching with concern when the Steward's body tensed in uncomfortable trepidation.

"They do not pain me Aragorn," he argued with a note of pleading in his tone.

"Oh I think they do. Faramir, I'm a healer, I've noticed how you carry yourself slightly to the side to avoid putting pressure on that deep lash on your back, how you don't raise your arm after a certain point to prevent the pain in your shoulder. My friend, I seek only to ease you."

Faramir's lips pursed slightly, discomfort, both physical and emotional, radiating off him in tangible waves; Estel could watch the conflict between his common sense and his pride and trepidation. Faramir knew what the Elven massage Aragorn used entailed, he had experienced it, even enjoyed it, before; but the sheer discomfort of needing, wanting that aid caused him to hesitate, an unfortunate remainder of his treatment by Denethor. But this internal conflict took less time than usual to resolve. With a small sigh, Faramir acquiesced with a small sigh and a "very well, Aragorn."

Aragorn allowed himself a small, satisfied smile; this was a tangible sign of Faramir's growing comfort in the presence of his lord.

"Very well then. Could you remove your shirt and lay face-down on your bedroll?"

Hands shaking slightly, Faramir complied. Aragorn watched this surreptitiously as he gathered his supplies, feeling his disregard of Denethor grow. He knew only a little bit of what had happened to Faramir as his father gradually descended into madness, and especially after Boromir's departure into the army, information told to him in confidence by Mithrandir. Just that little bit had made him nauseous, made him understand Faramir's reaction now.

His concern spiked as, apparently approaching too softly for the Steward to pick up in his current state, Faramir jumped in alarm when Aragorn's hand descended to clasp his shoulder.

"Relax, my dear friend," he soothed, easing himself down to sit beside the younger man. "I will not hurt you."

" 'M know," came the softly murmured reply. The body relaxed marginally.

With a sigh, Aragorn began. He started with an oil made of chamomile, frankincense, lavender, and rosemary; beginning at Faramir's neck, he slowly worked his way down to his shoulders and his back, using Elvish massage techniques and liberal amounts of the oil to help relax the still too-tense muscles; the rest of the healing wouldn't be nearly effective otherwise.

Aragorn finished the first part of the massage, taking note of Faramir's breathing – slower than before – his half-lidded eyes. He took the heated water from earlier, making a poultice of cloves, mint, myrrh, yarrow, and some of the oatmeal he'd brought from Minas Tirith. The King then took out five of the athelas leaves he always carried with him, breathing on them and crumbling them into the remainder of the water. The state of Faramir's back was still alarming – although many of the wounds were now scarred over, those inflicted on the Steward most recently, especially the dangerously deep one on his left side, still appeared red and tender.

Once again, Estel began at Faramir's neck, applying the poultice to both new and old wounds alike; he was especially pleased to note that Faramir barely flinched through the whole process. After covering these, he had a now sleepy Faramir roll onto his side so he could repeat the process on the wound left by the Southron dart.

When he finished, Aragorn placed the pot of water back by the fire, while preparing sage and chamomile. He added the extra leaves to the athelas- water once it boiled, letting the infusion steep before pouring the tea into a mug and rousing the dosing Faramir enough to drink the draught.

Thanks to the treatment, and probably in the face of his own exhaustion as well, Faramir slept through the night. His King, on the other hand, wanting to let Faramir sleep and knowing that he would probably only wake from nightmares after a few hours if he tried to do the same, kept watch that night, a watch over his Steward, a watch against anyone or anything that dared try and hurt him.

* * *

The next few days were bright, warm, glorious. King and Steward, father and son, spent just as much time talking, really getting to know each other, as they did hunting in preparation for the long winter ahead. They shared about their childhoods and days with the Rangers, spoke dreamily about their women, discussed their hopes and dreams for the future, for themselves, for Gondor.

As promised, each night Aragorn would repeat the massage and healing process, and each night Faramir was a little more receptive, a little more comfortable with the procedure and the contact, so that by the end of the first week even the deep whip reel and the shoulder wound looked healthier, had closed up more.

The seventh day dawned like all the others before, except the two men had decided not break camp, instead building a sturdier shelter in the light of the dark storm clouds on the western horizon. Aragorn had just moved the last of their supplies under the temporary refuge of branches lashed tightly together between a few tree limbs when he noticed Faramir staring unseeingly into the now-menacing storm clouds.

"To this day I don't know why he did it," Faramir confessed quietly, audible thanks to the stillness of the forest. The calm before the storm.

There was no need to confirm who 'he' was.

"That's not surprising," Aragorn soothed, stepping up to Faramir's side. "He was your father: fathers don't beat their sons."

Faramir's face drained a shade paler.

"I still see it in my nightmares. Feel it…the fear…the physical pain…." He shuddered. "He would often have Ciaran or Nasur with him when he…. And as I try to forget, they're always there, reminding me, taunting…."

"They can't hurt you anymore though," Aragorn reminded. When Faramir still didn't break his glassy-eyed stare, he grabbed him by the shoulders, careful of the left one, and spun the surprised Steward around to face him.

"Faramir," he stated strongly, "they can't hurt you anymore. I won't _let_ them. I swear by the Valar that I'll keep you safe, that you'll never have to go through that again. But you have to work on putting it behind you; it's shaped you into the good, strong person you are, but the memories will destroy you if you continue to dwell on them! My friend," and he spoke softer now, "let me help you."

Faramir's eyes were still glassy, but not with the blank gaze of before. He slowly lowered his head, like a person lying down a heavy burden and trying not to hurt themselves in the process. Aragorn drew him closer into the embrace, holding him tightly, relieved to feel Faramir's arms go around him as well.

"They won't hurt you anymore," he whispered again, soothingly, into Faramir's ear, pretending not to feel the growing moisture on his shoulder. "I'll keep you safe."

The storm broke.

* * *

Later that night, Aragorn shot awake, his sixth sense screaming at him. Outside the shelter, it was inky black; the storm still raged, making it In total impossible to see. Faramir still slept peacefully beside him.

Aragorn's hand automatically went to Anduril, grasping the familiar hilt making him feel more in control. His other hand reached over and, although loath to, shook Faramir awake. His sleepy face cleared when he noticed Aragorn's white-knuckled grip on the sword, and further when Aragorn explained to him, in a series of nonverbal gestures, what was going on. The Steward seized his sword as well, remembering from his ranger days times like these, preparing for an ambush, senses on hyper alert. The most dangerous enemies are the ones you can't see.

Faramir had barely grasped the hilt of his sword when the foliage making up one side of the shelter exploded inwards, momentarily blinding the two men. The attackers took advantage of this, putting King and Steward immediately on the defensive. The battle almost at once moved out of the shelter and into the blinding rain. Aragorn found himself rapidly forced away from Faramir, cornered by two other men in a three versus one battle. The only way Aragorn now knew if Faramir was alright was by the different sequence of swords clanging together.

The conditions were horrible; slippery mud, poor visibility, and the dashing rain hindered both opponent and oppressor, oftentimes preventing an otherwise wounding or fatal strike by one or the other. Aragorn was just beginning to feel like he had the upper hand when a commanding voice rang out across the clearing and over the rage of the storm which made his blood turn to ice.

"Put down your weapon, Elessar, or your Steward's _dead_. That is, if he's not already."

Panicked, confused – he _knew_ that voice – Aragorn spun around, frantically starting to call out Faramir's name as he ran in the direction of the voice.

"Fara – "

To turn around was a mistake. It had been a terrible, _stupid_, mistake, blinded as Aragorn was to reach his Steward, to find out if he was alright. After all, the youngest of children knew never to turn your back on your living, _still-armed_ enemy.

Aragorn's cry cut short as the pommel of a sword slammed into the back of his skull. He vaguely felt the chill of the mud as he collapsed, his previous panic fading away into blackness.

* * *

A/N: Two words – _Real Life_. I can't tell you guys how sorry I am about this chapter. It is the longest one to date though, which I must say I'm very pleased about. Things have pretty much been consistently busy: good news, I know where I'm going to college; bad news, I've got three APs that I'm studying for, the first of which is in less than two weeks. So here's the deal. Between now and the end of the year, I can't say week to week how much time I'm going to have to write. This story is in the works: if I could do it over, I would've waited until I had more chapters done to begin posting. But now it's too late, and unfair to you all if I stopped and wrote the whole thing, unless you want me to. I'll tell you one thing though, for the next three weeks, I won't be writing _anything_ other than practice essays. My last exam is on the 13th, and then I leave for senior trip two days after. After that, we'll take it day to day, week to week. I'll try my best to write as much as I can, when I can. The story, in my mind, picks up a lot after this, which makes it easier and more fun to write as it is to read. So please, bear with me. I've said it before, and I'll say it again now, I will not abandon this story, it will get done sometime, somehow. Please leave a review on the way out, they really help. Thanks so much everyone!

Wren


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

He was being followed. It had overtaken him in the forest, and now pressed against him from all sides, making his eyes, open or closed, ache with its intensity. It was the darkness, and in the midst of its unrelenting intensity, he didn't know if he was awake or asleep, conscious or unconscious, alive or dead.

Faramir shuddered against the restraints which held him spread-eagled to a cold, clammy wall. Scenes from the attack in the forest flashed at him like portraits against a black background. He remembered how one of the burlier men had snuck up on him and attacked him from behind, wrapping his right arm around his chest and his left around his throat like chains of flesh; the left hand was twisted back around, shoving the point of a dagger threateningly into his scalp. And then they used him as leverage against the man who was not only his King, but the man Faramir had come to look on as a father:

_Put down your weapon, Elessar, or your Steward's _dead.

In that moment and now, Faramir wished with all his being that he had indeed been killed, if that would ensure Aragorn's safety.

_Oh, dear Valar, was he safe?_

"Aragorn?" Faramir called out softly into the darkness of his prison; the only response he got was the sound of his own voice echoing ominously back through the space. "Aragorn!" This time the cry was more akin to a plea, born of fear and desperation; it was perhaps through some form of divine pity, that he was answered by a pained-sounding groan.

"My lord, please answer me…."

"Far'mir?"

The Steward let out a breath of utmost relief. "Aye, my Lord; how do you fare?"

Another groan sounded somewhere upwards of Faramir. "They hit my head pretty hard, but not enough to cause a concussion, I think; I can find no injuries other than a headache. But you, Faramir, how do you fare? Where are you?"

"Judging by the way your voice travels in this space, I'd say I'm down some way from you. Physically, they have not harmed me, but…."

"What?"

"Aragorn…they have me chained." Faramir was ashamed to hear a note of fear creep back into his voice; Aragorn cursed.

"You're _chained?_" The rage in the Sovereign's voice was audible even in the echoing prison.

"Aye."

Then to Faramir's horror, he heard the rustling of fabric and several grunts as Aragorn struggled to stand.

"My lord, you shouldn't move!" he tried in vain to stop the monarch. "If you are in fact injured or concussed…"

"Faramir, I've been learning and training in the healing arts for the greater part of my life; I know the signs of concussion like the back of my own hand. And even if I were concussed or injured in some way, nothing so trivial would keep me from coming to your side. Now I need you to keep talking so I can follow your voice. How have they got you chained?"

"There are restraints on my wrists and … and my ankles," Faramir responded haltingly after quick reassessment. "My wrists are above my head, and my ankles cannot touch the floor…." His felt his heart begin to hammer faster in his chest, his breath become shorter.

"Faramir, _sidh_, relax. See, I have found you." And Aragorn's hand, which had been trailing along the wall closest to Faramir's voice now gently, touched his elbow; he felt it slide down his arm and gently but firmly clutch his shoulder; just that weight and warmth was enough to calm Faramir somewhat.

"Do you have any idea who could have done this," the Steward asked after letting his breathing calm somewhat.

"I have my speculations, each with more serious repercussions than the last. Whoever it was though, they had to've been planning this for a while. No one except your Uncle knew our exact plans, and the way they seemed to know our exact fighting style – it's obvious we're dealing with someone in the upper divisions of Gondor's government. And the implications of such can't even bear thinking about."

Faramir's heart steadily plummeted; such thoughts had already entered his mind, but hearing them spoken aloud made the whole situation seem somehow more real and terrible: barely five months since the return of the King, and they were already facing a coup, one which already held a dangerous, possibly disastrous trump card.

What could've been minutes, hours, or days passed, the inky blackness acting as a sort of horrific, timeless vortex. The two men made pointless conversation simply to dispel the silence; Aragorn would every now and again massage the tense muscles in Faramir's arms and neck brought on by his rather compromised position, trying to get him to relax as much as possible. And no matter how much Faramir pleaded, the King refused to sit and rest his aching head, arguing that until Faramir himself could sit, than neither would he.

Such a basic routine developed that it came as an even greater shock when the heavy door to the cell slammed open, sending vibrations through the damp, clammy walls. The blinding light of a torch was thrust into the space, illuminating it as a sort of cavern or cellar carved right out of the bedrock, reflecting grotesquely against the rough, slick walls. But when his eyes had adjusted enough to look directly at the torch and who was bearing it, Faramir found himself wishing for the darkness back again.

"My _Lords_," Lord Ciaran sneered, sweeping into a mocking bow, "I am simply _overjoyed_ to have you here as my guests. I hope the accommodations are suitable? Not quite what you're used to, I'm sure, but we all must make sacrifices for the betterment of Gondor, true?"

Faramir felt Aragorn move in closer to him, standing defensively between him and the five men who now moved into the chamber, led by Lord Nassur; one of the men was carrying a covered tray.

"Aragorn," Faramir hissed as Ciaran moved to stand beside Nassur, the two of them conferring for a moment in hushed voices, "move out of the way. You are the King, Gondor needs you, you are putting yourself in even greater peril by protecting me…."

"Oh don't you worry my Lord Steward," Ciaran spat the title as he prowled over, "the King will be quite safe, so long as you…cooperate."

Faramir felt Aragorn's body tense simultaneously with his in trepidation. "Ciaran…" Aragorn began, his tone placating but with an unmistakable undertone of steel, but at that moment, several things happened at once. At an unseen signal, the four men who had entered with Nassur lunged forwards as one, crossing the room in three strides, their eyes intent on Aragorn; the King, who had immediately stepped backwards to protect Faramir's helpless form, was able to hold them off admirably for a few moments, his extensive background in Elvish hand-to-hand aiding him well, but the fact that it was one man, who was trying to protect another, against four, who were much burlier and who had more room to maneuver, eventually overwhelmed him. One of the men was able to land a blow to Aragorn's stomach, and in the moment it took for him to regain his breath, the rest were on him.

Ignoring Faramir's cries for them to stop, the quartet dragged the still furiously resisting Aragorn over to another set of shackles, these set into the floor and low on the wall to allow for sitting but which gave no leverage to stand.

Faramir's fear had been replaced by fury, at Aragorn's treatment, at their helplessness, at the betrayal of men he and Aragorn should have been able to trust. His eyes burned fiercely as he glared at the counselor.

"Ciaran you Valar-forsaken bastard, if you hurt him…."

"Oh, little Faramir, I thought we had rectified these…shortcomings, long ago! I already told you he would not be harmed if you were cooperative, and as you know, I do _not_ like repeating myself. Really, Faramir, you must learn to _listen_. You are worthless, a mistake unto this world, and yet you still dare to look me in the eye and demand answers. It seems we'll have to re-teach these little lessons; honestly Faramir, I pity you. You should know by now that it is always harder to learn something when you fail to grasp it the first time." With that, he gestured to Nassur, who retrieved the covered tray, and, standing so to make sure both Faramir and Aragorn could clearly see it, he whisked off the cover.

For Faramir, it was as if one of his nightmares had sprung from the dark recesses of his mind and he was being forced to relive a time he'd thought long over. Just the sight of the tray had the blood draining out of his face; arrayed on it were instruments of torture, some he'd never seen before, and others … others still had blood stained on them. His blood.

Faramir clenched his mouth shut against the bile rising up from his stomach. He was dimly aware of Aragorn shouting, the knowing, all too gleeful grins on the faces of the four men still guarding Aragorn, Nassur toying with the instruments like a woman picking out an exact color thread. But they all faded as memory grasped him with vindictive claws.

_Twelve year old Faramir stood almost militaristically at attention in front of his father's massive wooden desk, small, spindly hands clenched into fists at his sides to belay, or even deny their insistant shaking. He honestly had no idea of why his father had called him here, no conception of what he could have done to warrant such a meeting when his father usually avoided him like a plague, except when administering punishment. This was indeed what Denethor seemed to be aiming towards as he sat in a regal stance behind his desk, hands clasped on the firm surface as he stared at Faramir condescendingly._

"_I have received reports, Faramir," he began in a chilling tone that never failed to send the boy's knees quaking, "that you have been consistently lax in your attention during lessons these past few days. And as you are aware, this is completely inexcusable for any son of mine."_

_Faramir, in his child naiveté, sought to explain to his stoic father. "I'm sorry father, truly I am, I'm just so excited for Boromir's return…"_

"_Silence!" Denethor roared. "Enough of your excuses, they are weak, just as you are. Boromir would never make excuses, Boromir would never be lax in his studies."A fervent look of adoration entered his eyes, as it always did when mentioning his eldest son, and Faramir couldn't help but feel that aching longing deep inside him where he'd thought he'd squashed it, for his father's adoration as well. He was snapped out of his thoughts as Denethor's face hardened and faced his youngest again._

"_This sort of behavior will not be tolerated, Faramir, however, I do not have adequate time to punish you at this time, I have a meeting. I will therefore leave your punishment in… equally capable hands."_

_As though on cue, there came a knock on the heavy oak door, and, with Denethor's permission, swung ominously open to let Lords Ciaran and Nassur stride into the room. Their appearance served to heighten Faramir's apprehension; he was equally afraid of these men and what they could do individually as he was his own father, and so to have them both together in an office that somehow seemed smaller and more stifling than a moment before had Faramir on the boarder of real fear. That, and the masochistic glint he was sure he saw in their eyes…._

"_You summoned us my Lord," Ciaran prompted politely, bowing in Denethor's direction._

"_Yes Lord Ciaran. I would like you to administer a punishment to my worthless son here; apparently he has been having some trouble listening in his lessons, and I do not have enough time to dole out an… appropriate… lesson."_

"_Yes my Lord."_

_As Denethor swept from the room, heavy black robes billowing like some thick shroud of despair, the two remaining lords turned their attention solely on Faramir. This time, the sick intent in both of their eyes was unmistakable, and Faramir's fear turned into real terror. Breaking out into a cold sweat and with shakes now coursing through his whole body, he started unconsciously backing up towards the wall._

_Ciaran lunged, much more quickly that a man of his girth should have, perverted glee twisting his features, and caught Faramir around the shoulders when he got trapped between the desk and the wall trying to make his retreat; Faramir's stomach dropped through the floor as he saw, behind Ciaran, Nassur pulling a coiled whip from his belt, unwinding it coil by threatening coil, caressing the handle like a lover, dark excitement glinting in his eyes._

_A sick certainty further twisted Faramir's gut. Oh Valar, they'd had this _planned!

"_This'll teach you to listen, brat."_

_Without another word, Ciaran pushed Faramir forward harshly so that he laid face-down on the desk; he felt his stomach try to rebel as the ties on the back of his shirt were slowly and tauntingly loosened, the fabric pulled away to expose his bare back. To Faramir's even greater horror, he felt the counselor's hand trail up the smooth, bared skin that could only have been described as sensual. Then the hand was grasping his neck, holding him firmly down to the table as the whip whistled through the air and landed with a sickening smack on his skin, creating the first of countless physical and mental scars Faramir would have to bear._

A/N: Yay! Evil cliffie of DOOM!!!!!! The one cliffie TO RULE THEM ALL!!!! BUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!

Faramir: What are you doing to me you sick, perverted writer?!

Quill: "Getting poised to mentally and physically scar you for life."

Faramir: But _whyyyyyyyy?!_

Quill: "'Cus it's fun and reader's like it."

Faramir: ARAGORN!

Aragorn: *is glad it isn't him for once*

Quill: "Oh don't worry 'Gornie-dear, you'll get your turn." *evil grin*

Faramir and Aragorn: *cling to each other*

Quill: "BUAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!"

A/N 2: Long overdue apology for the lateness of this post. Long story short, I started college as a vocal performance major, AKA, I have no life, and the muse just hasn't been biting. Or rather, it's been biting, just not in the LOTR realm. So if you see other fics coming up, either here or on fictionpress, please don't hurt me! We're writers, we bow to the whim of the muse! *bows* But even if I don't update for long stretches, I assure you I have no intention of abandoning this story, I hate it when writers do that, and I have a general idea of where I want it to go, just it's the getting there that takes a while. Chow!


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **What a surprise, still don't own anything!!!

**Chapter 7**

Aragorn found himself sucked into the pool of horror which welled in Faramir's eyes as the contents of the tray were revealed. The steward's gaze was distant, the irises dark and haunted, and it immediately awake a fierce, burning desire in the King's breast to protect this man at all costs; the feeling cemented itself as he saw Ciaran select a gleaming silver knife from the tray.

"What the _hell_ do you hope to gain by this Ciaran!" the King roared, jerking futilely against his bonds. Surprisingly, this caused the traitor to stop, although the knife was still gripped ominously in a large hand. And when Ciaran turned slowly to face the king, the solemn, serious cast to his face filled Aragorn with more fear than if the man had been manically grinning. He knew in that moment that Ciaran wouldn't be underestimated, wouldn't be bribed, reasoned with, or made to compromise.

Ciaran wasn't crazy. He was obsessed. And that made him all the more dangerous.

"Oh I don't hope," the man said, as if they were discussing agricultural policy over drinks. "I… am _resolved. _You will give up your throne; you will hand the ruling power of Gondor over to the Council and a Council-appointed Steward; you will leave Minas Tirith, and neither you, nor any of your descendants, will ever return. You will do this, _Ellessar_, or I will _make you!_"

And he lunged, the blade in his hand coming up in a swift powerful surge, and a moment later was buried in Faramir's shoulder.

Aragorn watched helplessly as his Steward's eyes clenched shut, the muscles in his jaw and neck snap taught as he tried to deal with the pain, which he knew must be very great, although only a soft, slightly strangled groan escaped through Faramir's clenched teeth to give voice to it. And as he continued to watch, horrified, helpless, as his mind howled at him to _do something_, Faramir's eyes opened a crack, staring straight at him, and the King's grief was complete. In that gaze he saw, mingled with the pain and fear, understanding, resolve, acceptance; it made Aragorn's stomach churn.

Faramir was the trump card. He was the only variable in this game, if played right, that could snap Aragorn's will. He knew it. Faramir knew it. And the young man whom Aragorn loved like a son was willing to play that role, but only so long as Gondor stood intact.

The King could have wept; both he and the Steward knew that the monarchy must be kept intact, at all costs, if Gondor wasn't to fall into ruin once more. Faramir had taken the choice out of his hands; _he _was resolved. Which meant Aragorn had to resolve himself as well.

And taking a deep breath to steel himself, the King said in a clear, strong voice which betrayed none of his anguish, "I will not yield to your demands."

The grin which shot across Nassur's face, the glee that gleamed in Ciaran's eyes, turned Aragorn's blood to ice. And looking across the room, he saw the gut-churning terror he felt reflected in Faramir's eyes.

**A/N**

Faramir: *lifts head up from arms* "Is it over?"

Quill: "Hasn't started yet. You'll just have to wait for next weekend!"

Faramir: *whimpers*

Quill: *gives Corn Dog*

Faramir: *is happy*

Yea I know it's short but I felt it would be better to update at all than to make you guys wait some more. So enjoy this little tidbit, and I should have what you could consider the next part of this chapter up sometime next weekend, after I get my pre-calc final over with. Lots of Faramir torture/hurt/comfort to come!


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, wish I did, if only to pay off student loans.

**A/N**: Don't declare a double major unless you wish to have no life 30 weeks out of the year. But on the plus side, I have a portfolio now!!!! =P

Here there be nasties. **M Rating applies to this chapter!!!!! **

**Chapter 7B**

Fortitude is said to be strength of mind that enables a person to encounter danger or bear pain or adversity with courage. In this case, Aragorn wasn't sure if an overabundance or lack of this 'courage' caused the numbness he felt as Ciaran at long last stepped away from Faramir, a satisfied smirk on his face. Blood – oh Valar, _Faramir's_ blood – dripped tauntingly over the blade of the knife he still wielded, staining Ciaran's fingers a mocking crimson. Faramir was panting harshly, obviously in a great deal of pain. But he hadn't cried out once.

"You realize this is just the beginning," the counselor sneered, handing the saturated blade to Nassur. "Just look at him, in so much pain…," and he ran blood-drenched fingers over one of the deeper cuts in Faramir's side. Aragorn wanted to be sick at the man's mock-caring touch and tone.

"But just imagine," Ciaran continued, turning to look at the King, "what else I can do." And he wiggled his fingers knuckle-deep into the gash.

"NO!" Aragorn cried, straining with all his might against the immovable shackles. Faramir let out an agonized cry before biting down hard on his lower lip; Aragorn watched, horrified, as the muscles in Faramir's stomach spasm, vainly trying to force out the invaders. Faramir let out a horrible groan when Ciaran finally retreated.

"It doesn't have to be that way though. You could just…give in."

And Faramir lifted his head and spat in Ciaran's face.

--

It had taken Imrahil a week to reach Dol Amroth, an uneventful journey but one which left him dirty and tired none the less. Despite this, the lord was prepared to investigate the damage left by the storm, and plan a course of action for recovery, before taking some rest.

But from his position at the top of that last rise, Imrahil was horrified at what was laid out below him. The city was pristine, the fields glowing a rich, healthy green in the mid-morning sunlight. From the ocean came the irregular flashes of fishing vessels, and the wind carried with it the distant sounds of various herds out to graze.

Imrahil spurred his horse down the hill, flying with a reckless speed born from the icy knot of dread which had thudded in his stomach. The note he had received in Gondor flashed accusingly before his eyes – not the work of a new secretary then, as he had thought, but a fake, designed to lure him away from the White City.

He needed to gather supplies, a fresh horse, and get back with all speed. He was a member of the High Council; if someone had wanted him out of the picture, their target must also be within the highest reaches of the government, which put both his nephew and Gondor's new, naïve King in jeopardy. And knowing the two of them, Imrahil had a horrible feeling that they would find themselves in the middle of the conflict, one way or another.

--

"BRAT!!!"

Ciaran seized a whip, a brutal cat o' nine tails, and slashed it viciously against Faramir's torso. The young man let out a horrible, half-choked wail, throwing his head back against the stone wall.

"I…will teach you…to…respect…me…again!" Ciaran snarled bestially, striking Faramir mercilessly with the whip. The Steward cries intensified, rising to an all-out scream of agony as the nine tails sliced deep, brutal abrasions into the sensitive skin of his chest and stomach. Through the haze of pain that had finally, inevitably fallen over his senses, Faramir could barely make out Aragorn's plaintive cries, begging Ciaran to stop. In the face of such suffering which Ciaran was inflicting, it seemed pride was put aside.

And despite the pain, despite the humiliation, as long as Aragorn didn't recant the throne, Faramir knew he would force himself to stay strong. He was prepared to give up everything if it meant Gondor, his home, the place for which so many had suffered and died, didn't fall into these men's hands.

Lost in his thoughts and the fog of pain, Faramir didn't realize his bonds were being released until he slammed face-first into the cold, unyielding floor. All the air was forced out of his lungs, and his cry of pain only emerged as a choke.

Faramir hadn't even gotten his breath back when he felt the whip connect ruthlessly with his back. Nassur was wielding it this time; his strikes came faster and harder – Faramir knew from experience. He tried in vain to curl into a ball, anything to protect himself from the agony tearing through his body and suffusing his mind. He couldn't hear Aragorn anymore, even though the man was only a few feet to his side. All that existed was _pain, pain, painohValarplease, pain, stop, painpain, please, painpainpainpain…, _and the whistle of the lash and the blood pounding in his ears and Nassur's grunts and his own choked cries.

He didn't realize when it stopped. He didn't hear the men unlock Aragorn's chains, their parting taunts, the door slamming shut.

And he wasn't sure how long it took for him to feel Aragorn's breathing in his ear from where his head was propped against the man's chest, the arms wrapped cautiously around his shoulder and hips to keep him off the hard, cold ground and aggravating the burning lacerations adorning his body. He couldn't tell when he first heard the stifled sobs of his King, his friend, or felt the tear drops against his head.

But he was completely aware of the words Aragorn was whispering, over and over into his ear, a mantra that he clung to in the midst of the agony:

_I won't give in. I promise. I won't give in. Oh Valar, I'm so sorry Faramir. Forgive me, _please _forgive me._

Faramir wanted to tell him there was nothing to forgive, that for Gondor and for friend and King he would willingly bear anything.

_I won't give in either. Just please stay strong for me my Lord. Please stay strong._

_I'm sorry too._

And then there was nothing.


	9. Chapter 9

"_Why must you do this to yourself, Faramir?"_

crack

"_How do you persist in being such a failure?"_

crack

"_What a waste. such a _shame_ you're so worthless, Faramir."_

A caress. Blood smearing.

"_You must be taught, Faramir. I'm _so sorry _its come to this, but you _just. won't. learn!

"_We will teach you to listen to those in charge, Faramir._

"This is for your own good."

Underground, in a dark, damp chamber, Faramir let out a tiny whimper. Twin tears rolled down his cheeks as his body curled vulnerably into itself.

And the King watching over him felt his heart break.

Imrahil's face was set as he swept furiously down the corridors of the citadel towards his office. The White City had never felt so ominous. For the last five months, it had reflected the peace and prosperity brought to the land through the reign of King Elessar.

Now, it seemed as though every crevice and shadow concealed a potential threat.

Imrahil entered his office and swung the travelling cloak from his shoulders. He found his mind beginning to make contingency plans, plans for worst-case scenarios.

His musings were brought to a screeching halt, however, as he rounded the desk and found an unaddressed, tri-folded sheaf of parchment propped against the reading lamp.

Studiously ignoring the shaking of his hand, Imrahil reached for the note.

_Lord Imrahil_

_I am sure by now you have realized your grave folly. Consider this a confirmation of such. Welcome to our little game, Lord Imrahil, and pray to the Valar you perform to expectations. Do so, and you might receive your prize._

_I have the King and his Steward. Your Lord and your nephew. They are quite well hidden, so I would recommend not running off on a wild, perversely heroic chase; you would not find them, and who knows what might happen to them in the meantime. _

_Time is of the essence, Lord Imrahil; I will be in contact shortly. In the meantime, contemplate your options—I am sure you will make the right decision._

Imrahil slammed both palms on the desk in absolute frustration, then raged to his feet and began furiously pacing the room.

His nephew and the King. Taken. Gone. And now this blasted note, taunting him and his inability to act.

Imrahil made a particularly sharp turn and swept back to his desk, snatching the not up on his pass to the window.

Scanning the thing again, he attempted to look at it objectively, though it was next to worthless.

His gut was still screaming at him—whether or not this sheaf of parchment contained worthwhile information was inconsequential at this point in time. As it stood though, the only people who possessed the information or resources necessary for this involved a plot _had_ to be in the upper levels of the government. And where better to begin the search for potential conspirators than with those the King was most wary of—the High Council.

The days blended together. In the lightless stone cell, time held no meaning and yet, far too much. For Aragorn and Faramir, all they could do was wait—for their next pseudo "meal," the next glass of water, the next beating and interrogation, for the other to regain consciousness after the fact. Yet even these markers came with no regularity.

And so king and steward were lost to all but themselves and their captors

Thus, neither was expecting anything different when the door slammed open and Ciaran came striding into the cell like basalt over water, wearing an expression like a cat that caught the canary; Nassur was on his heels and three soldiers blocked the open door.

"Gentlemen," Ciaran addressed them grandly as though they were in the throne room of Minas Tirith. "I am so pleased to inform you that you have now been guests here in excess of two weeks!"

Faramir and Aragorn eyed him warily from their positions against the walls.

"And what, pray tell, is the significance of that?" Aragorn demanded. His voice was still quite hoarse from when a soldier had held him against the wall by his throat, strangling him while he was beaten.

"Why my dear King!" Ciaran chimed, far more happily than the situation deemed appropriate. "It means we are now moving on to the next phase – rehabilitation."

Nassur and the soldiers closed into the room, and as one lethal unit, lunged from Faramir.

The next few moments were a blur of blinding panic. The soldiers were shouting, Aragorn crying out his protest, Faramir a blaze of manic energy as he first desperately tried to evade the four men, and then in trying to escape them.

But the soldiers were like a solid wall, unyielding in the face of either Aragorn or Faramir's struggles, weakened as they were by little food and cruel treatment.

Finally, Nassur simply hoisted a still-resisting Faramir over his shoulder and, as was inevitable, removed him from the cell.

Before the door slammed shut and timeless darkness returned, Aragorn paid witness to Faramir's desperate, terrified eyes, gazing hopelessly at him through the knot of soldiers.


End file.
